Bad Blood
by kaleidocat
Summary: Saw crossover. The kids are in Jigsaw's lair. It's not your average blood and guts horror story. Find out what they are really thinking as the time ticks by.
1. Introduction

For those of you who don't know about the Saw movies or just can't remember, here's a little background information:

Every horror movie needs a killer and in the Saw series it's a man who the newspapers have labeled as "Jigsaw". He received this name because he carves a small puzzle piece into their flesh; this is meant to symbolism that they were lacking something in their lives – mainly the survival instinct. His victims are put into deadly situations that serve a bit of a moral point, a lesson about how they are leading a wasted life. Jigsaw aka John became the teacher of these lessons when he was diagnosed with Cancer by Dr. Gordon. When he survived a suicide attempt that he felt allowed him to be reborn, John set out to carry out an elaborate plan to teach Dr. Gordon what he was lacking in his life. He took a few others along for the ride.

One of them was a junkie named Amanda. When she survived a trap Jigsaw dubbed the "reverse bear trap," she stated to police that he made her appreciate life more. When Saw II rolled out, she had become his apprentice. Her first test subject and other victims who could be linked to him were held hostage in a house filled with booby-traps.

Now that you are caught up, time for my fic. At some point, these two made it up to Toronto. Don't ask me why they are there. Use your imagination. Maybe Jigsaw and Amanda have decided to go international after meeting Craig in L.A. as he was looking to score cheaper heroin. They then decided to take on the punks up in Canada. More likely, Amanda ran into Kevin Smith at the supermarket and listening to him drone on about a cool school in the great white north was enough to drive her to homicide.

This story is dark. As in black with no sugar. I'm going for more of a delirious and paranoid tone, but there is minimal gore/blood (after all it is a Saw crossover). I do plan on describing the "traps"/"lessons" and what will happen, but there will be little described what does happen because I think that you can imagine yourself. I will give some warnings at the beginning of each chapter just because I'm nice like that.


	2. The One Who Is Too Weak To Fight

Warning: Hint of possible self-mutilation or mutilation by others (cutting and stitches). Drug abuse.

Craig followed the punky, petite brunette into her apartment. She gestured to the couch and he sank down on it, already plotting his next move. A smile played on his lips as he watched her pull a small box from out from underneath the couch. He found her pretty. She was older. He guessed she was in her thirties but it was hard to be sure as her lifestyle added a few years, especially in her eyes. But her body wasn't wrecked like other addicts he'd come across, her skin was clear, and she still a bit of youthfulness in her soft facial features. But he always found an attraction in other junkies. They shared a strong common interest. He settled back and watched her fill the syringes. Morphine, she had promised earlier. He looked around her place; bohemian pillows and beads dancing over the open window. Maybe he'd be staying for awhile. How long should he wait before he could politely raid her fridge, he wondered.

He rolled up his sleeve once she sat down next to him. He could feel the intensity of her stare as he found the vein in his arm and injected the drug. Before he knew it, he felt the warmth that made his eyes almost roll back into his head. He wanted to question the second syringe that rested on the coffee table, but found himself telling her how long he'd been using and occasionally tossed in a sentence about what his father did to him and who Joey was.

Amanda listened patiently and then suggested, "Maybe you just need to test yourself and you will see that you are not weak anymore."

"Test? Like a final at school?" Craig asked, his eyes barely open. He made a slurping noise as he sucked the spit off of his lips and back into his mouth.

"A final test."

-------------------------------------

He awoke confused and groggy. He struggled to form some timeline in his mind but the points weren't meeting up. He waited for his vision to snap into focus. It was too dark. He managed to focus in on a form in the room; she lay on the floor. When his eyes closed, he lost her. He followed a beam of light that presented him with a flashlight. He reached for it but his hand simply flopped onto the floor. He closed his eyes and waited a few moments, then sat up and was prepared to inspect the damage he had done this time.

Still weary, he began to undo the bloodied gauze on his arms. He examined the rows of stitches on his arms. He tore the bandages off of his wrists, more stitching. "Sewing me whole again. I want to be whole again," he thought as his wrist dropped down to the floor. His vision blurred slightly and instead of thinking about medical treatment he thought of the linear pattern of wheat fields. You reap what you sow. He promptly threw up when he saw the fresh track marks on his arm. He gingerly touched them. The irritated puncture marks reminded him of the wounds left on the doorframe at his fathers when Dad had removed the locks.

He had a flash of the syringes that were offered. So it wasn't a surprise that he ended up in a strange building. Then he noticed the shackle on his ankle. He angrily began to jerk around, scratching at his ankle. Another bout of dry heaves interrupted him. When his eyes stopped watering, he struggled to study his environment. The bare room was dirty and the minimal lighting only provided more grunge. If this was psychiatric, this was definitely not the posh place rock stars get ride it out in. What he got was roach motel.

It was then that he noticed the small tape recorder lying on the floor next to him. A scalpel lay beside it. Remember. Remember, he ordered himself. Out of fear, he grabbed the scalpel with one hand and the other clutched the tape recorder.

"Hello, Craig. This is your test, though you've used up all the multiple choice answers. There will be no methods of torture for you. I have faith that you will do it to yourself without much coaxing. Reflect on your past, the abused boy, the suicide attempt, the one who was given so much love by his family and girlfriends but simply could not appreciate it. It is a mystery what you really want, judging by how you seem to be on the look out for the next best thing and when you actually come close, you act like you don't deserve it and set out to destroy it. You've wasted too much. You've drained your talents and opportunities through drug and alcohol use. Sometimes bloodletting is the only way to rid yourself of the poison that is seeping in. The key is hidden underneath your own flesh."

He set the tape recorder down and grabbed the flashlight. He shined the weak beam over his arms. The only sound in the room was his rapid breathing and the static of white noise from the tape player. He frantically yanked up the leg of his jeans. Several more patches of stitches. Remember, he ordered. He twisted his right hand around his left wrist as his panic increased. He could only remember cutting into his wrists. He was still too foggy.

"I want to go home," he couldn't help but cry out. He hadn't seen Joey in months. When it all went to hell and he desperately wanted out of the mess he was in but was too desperate to actually do anything about it, he went to Joey. He lasted a few hours, anyway. Home wasn't home anymore. He fell right back into the routine and had passed out in the bathroom in his vomit. He was too far gone to do anything about the needle and cooked smack resting on the toilet lid. Upon finding him, Joey had taken care of him like Craig had the flu. Craig remembered the warmth of that moment. In that moment, he felt like he had it all. He was high and with that came the lovely blurring of everything bad that had ever happened. And he was loved.

It changed the next morning when his stepfather gave him an ultimatum – get help or get out. Craig first reassured that what Joey saw was a slip. He simply needed to get out of the place he was in. He had plans, he'd said enthusiastically. He wanted to go back to high school and go onto university. He knew that was what Joey wanted the moment he told him about the music showcase, music manager Leo, and plans of moving out to Vancouver to record his music. Maybe he'd teach music after school because the rock and roll lifestyle is too much, Craig had said in a tone that seemed a bit put on. Craig suggested that maybe he'd dig out his camera again. He had a lot of things he could still do. He could do them.

"You have to know that right now school is the last thing you need," Joey had interjected as Craig rambled. Craig then spit out every possible excuse he could; the pressure was too much in Vancouver, if he had never met the lead guitarist at that club it wouldn't have happened, it was just the lifestyle, you know how peer pressure can be, he wasn't taking his meds every day, it was a bipolar episode, he needed some different kind of medication, he was depressed, if he had never been abused he wouldn't be such a wreck all the time, it's hard not having a mom or dad, it had never been the same since Ashley left, Manny broke up with him, everyone just leaves and if Joey abandoned him now, he would die. "The answer is simple," Joey had said. "Just get help." Out of desperation, Craig had then thrown a fit that could rival the one Angie had when Joey had refused to buy her the newest Barbie. Craig could remember the exact disgusted expression Joey had as he had watched him scream and cry. So in an effort to keep any dignity he had, he left.

He replayed the message, the voice drilling into his head.

Poison. Poison. The doubt set in. He had to face up to the idea that he could not be certain what he put in his system while at Amanda's apartment. "Sometimes bloodletting is the only way to rid yourself of the poison that's seeping in," the hoarse voice encouraged. As the static of the tape began to loop, he sloppily brought the scalpel across his left forearm. He was numb and could not feel much of his hands nor did he feel the slice. His blurry vision helped him to create a new wound. When it all went black, his last frantic thought was that he wasn't sure if the dim flashlight had simply burned out or if he had faded out of consciousness.


	3. Opposites Attract

Warning: Description of traps, slight bloodiness mentioned.

"What I want to know is why you, me, and Dylan. Why do I have my head in this…thing, Dylan's wrapped in wire, and all you have is a shackle on your ankle?" Marco stated. He refused to look at Dylan even though the razor wire was in loose circles around him. But in the way that Marco was restrained, his only other options were the monitor suspended several feet above Dylan or the empty space where the paint cracked wall met the concrete ceiling.

He couldn't help but flashback to the night of the bashing. Why else would he be in this situation if it weren't a hate crime? He instantly went back to that night of feeling out-numbered and angry that he was a victim. Ever since that night, he swore that he would go down fighting. Go for the knees, throat, and eyes. But this was different because he could not remember how or why he ended up here. Not to mention that his attacker was an invisible one. He glanced over the monitor again, the screen split up into sections that allowed him to look in on his friends, former classmates, and a couple other kids he had ran into at Degrassi. When had all this started? He searched his mind for a starting point but couldn't trace far enough forward to figure out when he was abducted and brought to this room. The heavy door and dingy nothingness made it more of a cell than a room though.

"I have nothing to do with why you are here," Jay replied. All the while he was creating a mental checklist. He had learned from the monitor that there was too much order to those placed in these rooms that held them hostage. He had sniffed out Marco's suspicions – hate crime. Somehow that seemed too easy in this situation. He wasn't sure there was any emotion behind any of this.

"Why are you so quick to defend yourself? That's not what I'm asking," Marco said and interrupted Jay's thoughts.

"Sure sounds like it, from your tone. You really think I'm that much of an asshole? Look, the high school stuff was just that. We all break each other down. Don't bother bringing Rick into this." Everyone thought that he didn't feel any remorse for his involvement in the shooting. He did. But he didn't even entertain the crazy idea that he was supposed to know that by covering his own ass when it came to the tar and feather incident would have someone shot. He didn't know the guy would snap. You could never tell what someone was capable of. He had almost felt relieved when he was forced to leave school; he was tired of the blame game that involved the weighing of who had given the most insults to the troubled kid who retaliated with bullets.

"We shouldn't have to break each other down. It doesn't have to be that way," Marco said as he kicked an envelope with his name on it towards Jay, who was holding a tape recorder. But he knew Jay was right. This wasn't about high school anymore. Hell, this wasn't even about real life anymore. One of his first thoughts was that this was a dream. You are seeing things you've never seen before, in a place you've never been before, you don't know how you wound up here, what else could it be? Then, he had moved onto praying this was some elaborate prank or some bizarre social study on human interaction. And even if it wasn't, he knew he was going to be changed. All of his hang-ups on perfection were going to be left in this room. It was so pointless to try to live up to being successful, being remembered, when you weren't really living.

Jay rolled his eyes at Marco's let's-all-be-buddies advice. He picked up the envelope and tore it open, expecting a small cassette similar to the one he'd found in his pocket. He decided to respond with a rude remark, his quick exit out of almost any discussion he didn't want to be a part of. "Well at least that Terri chick isn't here. Her challenge would probably be to eat her way out."

"Could you possibly be any more offensive?"

"Did you know that I was hinting at cannibalism when I said that?"

Marco could only sigh in response.

"Hey, Del Rossi, I'm just…trying to distract you here," Jay said in a softer tone. He knew that Marco had been watching the monitor, picking up on the others in strange devices or shackled to the floor. He knew that he had the easier way out, compared to having your head stuck in some device that looked like it could clamp down at any moment.

"Well, try something else, it's not working." Marco was realizing that having someone with a hard edge was keeping him from breaking apart. He couldn't stay grounded enough to try to make sense of this situation though. The fear kept leading him back to paranoia and suspicion. Someone here had to be the link between them and the serial killer carrying all this out.

"Look, there's one thing I'm sure of and that's that we aren't meant to be dinner. I've seen this guy on the news."

"You watch the news? I suppose you would, that's how you keep track of your family members' right?"

Jay smirked a little. "That's right. I have to know which phone call to avoid that night in case some annoying cousin wants bail." He paused for a few moments and then suggested, "I'll play mine first."

"Hello, Jay. Your criminal background should help you to move stealthily around the room as you retrieve a collection of the keys you need to unlock yourself and your two new friends. As your lifestyle has taught you, the only thing at stake isn't just your own life. Do you think about the bystanders in your crimes?"

Was this guy his future parole officer? Did he hook up with the high school principal to concoct that bullshit? This guy was going to help him realize his own worth once he discovered his survival instinct? Please. Maybe to a certain degree his petty crimes and fist fights were a method of survival. Not exactly admirable, but the voice on that tape was not about to call him out and dictate some punishment while he brought on forced suicide. Without a word he switched the tapes.

"Hello, Marco. The device around your neck is basically an oversized mouse trap. One of the keys in this room will allow you to go free. Unfortunately for you, your device restricts you from moving about the room. You will have to trust the other gentleman in the room with you to collect them. The third party in the room is your lover, as I understand. He's simply a pawn in this game. As Jay moves around, the razor wire on your lover's body will tightened. Don't fret too much; he has been given an overdose of narcotics. You cannot hesitate in this game; taking action will give you freedom. Don't be the meek little mouse that is caught in his own trap."

"No. Let's just not play," Marco declared, the word "play" left him feeling nauseous.

"We don't have a choice. We have to do this or we rot down here," Jay said as he took a few steps over to the door. He was trying to shake the waves of claustrophobia that were washing over him. So this is what jail would feel like. This is what the cramped apartments felt like as he was growing up; the two bedroom apartment with two siblings and two angry parents who stayed together for the kids. By the time he was sixteen, he learned that the most valuable thing was his car and the ability to stay two steps ahead of everyone else so that you could strike them before they came after you. His car and movement; once he was out of here, he was going to drive until he longer recognized the environment or the language.

Jay pulled the first key down from the ledge above the door. He noticed that it was covered in what appeared to be blood. He tried not to think about whose blood it was or why as he moved over to the next key that caught his eye. Between this one and the next, he decided to confront the body on the floor.

"I can't loosen the razor wire without being cut. It's a huge mess, I can't get it untangled," he flatly stated to Marco. He did remove his own jacket and shoes and attempted to create a buffer between the sharp wire cocoon and Dylan's still body. His investigation of the body revealed several other keys, these warm from body heat and the blood thicker than what he'd found on the other. He also discovered that the voice on the tape didn't lie; Dylan appeared to be suffering from an overdose. He saw a flicker of metal and moved over to a vent on the floor.

"Stop, you're hurting him!" Marco screamed.

Jay obeyed and stared down at the floor for a moment. Then he met Marco's eyes, "Look, his pulse was weak. The tape is right. He was given an overdose. If he has any chance, it's that we get out of here and get him help."

Marco was hesitant to reply. He was coming to an understanding of the seriousness of this situation when he saw the blood begin to flow however. While a part of him was bitter that Jay could not be the one in the device around his neck or left for dead on the floor, he knew that it would be better to work together. "Do you think that if you move quickly, it will save him time?" Marco asked, thinking that sometimes it was better to just rip the band aid off instead of pulling it off slowly, hair by hair.

"I think that's a good idea."

"And maybe take a few steps as possible?" Marco added once he got a glimpse of how the wire was interweaved with the chain on Jay's ankle shackle.

"Yes. And I will wrap his wounds once I'm done," Jay said and moved around as quickly as possible. His head pounded as his heart raced. His hands were shaking as he gathered another key. "I think that's all of them. I mean, I don't know for sure, but I want the hell out of here," he rambled as he sat down and began to work on the shackle. He quickly shoved keys into the lock and twisted them frantically. Relief washed over him as he felt the grip of it loosen and he was able to yank it off and stand up. He grabbed the collection of keys and moved over to the door to begin trying. No use in getting too excited yet.

"You aren't just going to walk out of here, are you?" Marco asked with wide eyes and facial features tense with fear. He was utterly dependent on Jay releasing him from the device on his neck.

"Uh, no," Jay said, though his tone indicated some doubt. "Just trying them out on the door. That's one less that is for you. Saves time."

He didn't bolt out the door once he had it open. But once it was open, the tension mounted to an all new level. He felt as if a time bomb was about to go off and he knew that Marco was feeling ten times the anxiety. As he tried key after he key, he made an attempt to soothe the one in the trap, "What's the first thing you are going to do when you get out of here?"

Snap. The movement of the trap device was swift and quick. Jay was barely aware when it did happen; he only saw the body hit the floor. He stood there shocked for a moment, unsure of what happened. There was no blood, just unbelievable stillness. He didn't want to think that the twist of that one key had resulted in this. He then noticed a small bit of color painted on Marco's death trap, a glance at the key in the lock confirmed his fear. He was stupid and it could have been avoided. What he thought was blood on the keys probably wasn't, just a way of concealing the truth. The way out of this wasn't going to be easy unless you knew the tricks, watched everything. He tried to shake off the feeling that they were indeed fucked.

This wasn't his crime. How could it be murder when you were forced to commit it? This was among the many thoughts he had as he smashed the monitor and camera that was spying on his every move. Then out of respect and nagging guilt, he tore up his sweatshirt into strips and wrapped them around the Dylan's wounds. He wasn't sure if it would do much good, but he had to try. He went for the open doorway.


	4. The Sinner and The Saint

Warning: Remember Addison's trap from Saw II? It's making a comeback, but there's a twist. Slight bloodiness.

"Hello Manny. You no doubt want to know why you are here and what it means. I will tell you. You have used your pretty face to get what you want. Twice in your young life you have made advances or flirtations with a boy who was in a relationship. Is there something that gives you validation about your own worth in this thrill, Ms. Santos? But it would be too simple to call you out on only that. When you received attention from a movie role, you made arrangements for breast surgery because having a perfect body will keep others looking at you and further your career. You fail to realize what beauty is. Perhaps a constant visual reminder will help to enforce the idea that beauty extends beyond that pretty face and you will develop a new strategy for finding love and acceptance. Is a life with a physical disfigurement worth living for you? Make your choice. You must press your face into the grill to release your wrists from the device," the eerie voice on the tape instructed.

"How can he say that?" Manny moaned. She had not intended to even speak out loud. It just happened. Her anger forced its way through her fear. She was thankful for that, in a way. With anger came a desire to live. Those words cut through her, however. It always did whenever a remark was made about her love life or her mistakes. This went beyond the sting that the word "slut" brought on. That remark was made out of misunderstanding, she knew.

But this time around a twisted ultimatum was left and she had to silently fess up that there was some truth in the comment. It's not like she intentionally set out to hurt others, she argued mentally. She wasn't even sure why she did the things she did. She always justified it as willing to love and get hurt than not love at all. She wanted to make things happen; sometimes things just went too slow. If that wasn't living, what was? She refused to think about any way that she used her body. She simply assumed that she was a pretty girl that guys responded to and girls were jealous of. And it's not like she thought that highly of herself in the first place to be thought of as self-righteous. Alright, so her confusion was visible, she admitted it.

However she had never intentionally set out to use her body like she was some prostitute. She could think of a dozen different rebuttals to his message but she couldn't quite shake the feeling that in her actions, she was lacking in respect for herself. She didn't want an acting job because of her boobs. She didn't want some guy pitying her for showing her assets to the entire school either. While her times with Craig had been fun during the time he was around, she couldn't help but wonder if he simply wanted to bring her back to the girl she once was before being hot burned her up. She wanted to love herself more. And to ask her to wound herself and give herself some bizarre twist on a scarlet letter was insane.

Manny refused to pay more attention to the mysterious voice on the tape. She'd simply get herself out of this. She let out a scream as she attempted to remove her wrists from the device; she hadn't seen the circular blades that lined the tubular cavity that encased her wrists. The cuffs prevented her from peering into the box. And with the grill positioned in between the cuffs that held her wrists, the heat prevented her from spending much time studying it.

Darcy gasped at the thin trickle of blood that dripped down Manny's arms. She hadn't moved much upon waking; she simply sat on the concrete floor only moving to sometimes yank on the shackle around her ankle. "Someone will find us," she declared to the camera that sat on top of the monitors. "My parents will call the cops."

"Mine will…I mean, Emma's parents are probably looking for her," Manny said once she set her sight on her friend.

"You are a real piece of work, you know that?" Darcy muttered. She couldn't help it, people who didn't value what they had infuriated her.

"Oh, you are going to start this now?"

"How can you go for so long without seeing your own parents?"

"You don't know the whole story."

"I know that phone lines run both ways," Darcy snapped.

If she got herself out of this, she would make that call. No way could this be it. "Play your tape," Manny demanded. She found it strange how her anger was keeping her head clear enough to argue. She added, "I can't wait to hear what he says about you."

"Sure, go ahead and turn this into a competition," Darcy rolled her eyes as she replaced the tape with another. Deep down, maybe she preferred to have the spotlight on Manny.

"Hello, Darcy. I bet you never dreamed you'd see suffering like this. You've wanted to save people from it right? It is admirable to try to take on the weight of the world and give others redemption from their sins. But what happens when their sins consume you and it's almost all you can see? You dwell on the sins of others and fail to see your own shortcomings. While you are watching Manny suffer, did you wonder what on Earth you could have possibly done to get you here? After all, your mistakes are not nearly as large as hers, correct? Incorrect. I'm not here to pit crimes against crimes and weigh them out. While your intentions may seem decent at the time, you can judge and make others feel incomplete, dirty even. Take what you will from your time here and remember that things are not what they seem."

"Are you kidding me?" Darcy yelled at the camera. "I'm the zealous one? Who's the judgmental one here who thinks they can play God?"

"Stop screaming at the camera," Manny mumbled as she rested her head on the floor and tried to ignore the heat on the top of her head. Her neck ached whenever she kept it upright and she decided to chance the burn for a few moments. She learned earlier on of a position to delicately rest her arms so she would not chance injury.

"Well, he's obviously watching. He gets off on this. Look at…"

"I can't press my face into that!" Manny screamed. She was getting hysterical and she hadn't even been awake that long. She had woken up face-down on the floor, the crown of her head only inches from the grill on the front of the strange box. When she lifted her head, she heard a small crackle or snap, and the heat from the grill greeted her soon after. She barely dared to move a muscle after that and had screamed until her lungs were sore and her stomach ached with dread. Even when she had stopped yelling, it had taken her awhile to tune into Darcy's voice.

"I know you can't press your face into that. I'm not asking you to. I know. Look, he's trying to play us off each other. Let's not give in. We'll help each other, okay?" Darcy suggested after a moment of silence.

"Okay. You are right. You are so right."

"I don't know if I'll be able to reach that weird box with the key, but I'm going to try to walk over to you, okay? And get that key. And we'll be free," Darcy said as she stood up. She wasn't certain that it would be that easy. No doubt the chain wasn't long enough. She slowly began to creep over to Manny and the only sound in the room was the metallic dragging of the chain on the floor. She paused when the chain showed signs of becoming tense. She lingered roughly six feet from Manny.

"I know that it might hurt a little bit. But I think you can reach. It's hard to see anything besides this damn grill and I can't stand to look at how hot it is. It makes my eyes water. Do you see anything? Anyway that I can pull my hands out?" Manny rambled.

"No. I have to use the key in the padlock on the top of the box. It will open a door, and then I can use a lever that will release your wrists. And get the key that will unlock me," Darcy declared as she kneeled down and peered into the plexiglass cover of the box.

"Can you push on the blades so I can pull out my hands?"

"No. The cuffs aren't designed that way. If I put my hand up, it looks like the blades will clamp down on me. They aren't angled to be pushed up," Darcy said as she noticed the stench of burnt hair. She gestured to a strand of Manny's hair that had stuck to the coils. She watched as Manny fiercely shook her head and made an attempt to position her head as far away from the coils as she could. Darcy noticed that Manny barely flinched as the blades cut. At that moment she felt as if she might vomit, but struggled to keep an emotionless face for Manny's sake. She couldn't imagine being in that situation. How could someone ask her to do that? Who would possibly burn their own face?

"So if you were to push on the grill with your hand, my wrists would be released?" Manny asked.

Darcy nodded and looked away, ashamed that she was unwilling to do such a thing. She wasn't ruling it out by any means. She assumed there was another solution. She was closer to the strange waffle iron than she was the padlock and key but she couldn't burn herself just yet. She'd do what Manny said; struggle to get as close as possible to the padlock and key on the box. The strain and pinch of the shackle would hurt, but it took less mental preparation than she'd need to burn herself.

Darcy took a step forward though she felt a strain on her ankle. As she felt the tug of the shackle, she heard a terrific crash. Her eyes widened at the sight of the concrete wall caving in. It only took a few seconds of studying to see that the device she thought her shackle was attached to was fake and the chain continued to run up behind the unstable concrete wall. "..Taking on the weight of the world…" The panic surged through her like electricity and she strained to crawl further forward. She felt the shackle jerking her back and heard the noise before she felt anything. The last thing she remembered seeing as she lay on the floor was the looping of the chain that could have extended the length of her chain - her life - and the words "Look upward when you pray" scrawled on the ceiling.

* * *

Credit: Manny's trap is a creation of the folks who made "Saw II." It is a combination of the twisted "cookie jar" hand trap that Addison experienced and a "waffle iron" trap that Addison was meant to have. 


	5. Chemistry

Liberty's eyes flew open and she rigidly sat up. Her eyes were filled with tears but she did not blink them away. She had to take in as much of her environment as she could. She saw movement in the far left corner.

"You're okay," J.T. said and approached her. He offered his hand and helped her off the table. She still hadn't said a word; her only audible sounds were quick gasps for air and an occasional soft whimper.

"It looks like a school. The door is locked. I've tried every possible way to get it open. I'm surprised you didn't' hear," J.T. said, wanting to break the silence. He hated when things got too quiet. His ex-girlfriend preferred the quiet; silence helped your mind to absorb the information in books, it helped you to focus during a test, and it was when the best ideas came. He on the other hand liked noise. Home was the sound of the television on full blast after school, tin can laughter filling the living room and spilling into the kitchen. He liked the noise of a basketball game, even if the cheering wasn't for him. He liked to direct plays and enjoyed hearing the response of others following his orders. He found satisfaction when others laughed at his jokes. All in all, noise was cause and effect, the beginning and the end. With noise, he knew he was alive and something was happening.

He knew that something was happening here though, even if he couldn't hear it. The monitor in the corner told him that something was happening. From what he'd seen so far, he was glad he couldn't hear it. He was relieved she was awake now. At least that took away some of the dread of the silence.

Liberty and J.T. were slowly moving around the room. He was simply letting her take in the gritty almost industrial like environment. He was familiar with it as he had already spent time roaming around. If it was a school, any remainder of its personality had been taken away. No posters on the walls, the paint was peeling and chipped, the metal pipes rusted. He didn't want to tell her that he had found her lying on the dirt crusted floor in fear that she would begin to scratch herself a bit and run her fingers through her hair apprehensively, fearful about germs, bugs, and whatever other pests that roamed through her hair while she was out.

"Not used for awhile, if it is one," J.T. said and gestured to the giant heap of school desks that were thrown into a corner. They took up nearly a forth of the room. The dim fluorescent bulbs created monstrous shadows. J.T. felt a twinge of some childhood fear. It was like when he was a child and the nighttime shapes created horrible scenarios on the walls. In this nightmarish structure, he hated the sharp edges that the chair legs created as they poked out from the haphazard mess. He tried to casually lead her over to a chalkboard where he picked up a tape player and two envelopes with their names on them.

"In the back there's another room. Chemicals. I guess we're in the science lab, if this is really a school," J.T. added.

"Why aren't there any windows?" Liberty asked after she cleared her throat.

"Well then we'd just be able to crawl right out," J.T. answered bitterly. He watched as Liberty crept over to the monitor. He decided he'd remain where he was. He didn't really care what had happened while he wasn't looking. He could see her shake and her hand remained in front of her mouth, like that was the only thing keeping her from screaming. He guessed things had gotten worse.

"Play the tapes," Liberty said soberly.

J.T. decided on playing his tape first as he was not sure what to expect. "Hello, J.T. I know of you as a class clown, the one who keeps people away with jokes and laughter. When the seriousness became too much and you found yourself no longer laughing, you made an attempt at your own life. The only way out of here is to empty the bottle again."

"That makes no sense," J.T. muttered as he yanked the small cassette out and replaced it with Liberty's.

"Hello, Liberty. You are the kiss-ass to J.T's class clown. Quite the combination. While he went to such extremes as drug dealing to try to provide for you and an unborn child, you chose to neglect the health of your baby during the first few months of your pregnancy. Your desire for praise became self-centered when you failed to take care of your unborn child all out of fear of the reaction you would receive. That shows the disrespect you have for your own life, as well as someone else's. Do you have the desire to make it out of this situation? Are you finding comfort in your baby's father's arms? Let's see if the chemistry is right for the two of you. The wrong match and you two could go up in smoke."

"Replay them," Liberty instructed. As much as she did not want to be scolded for her mistakes, she needed to hear the clues again. "Can it be that obvious?" she wondered aloud and took off for the room in the back. She squinted over the bottles; it was hard to see in the barely lit room. The only light was provided from the ugly fluorescents in the main room. She looked over at J.T. and saw his moment of revelation.

J.T. frantically began to smash bottle after bottle, occasionally pausing to kneel down in the darkness and run his hands over the broken bits of glass in search of a key. Liberty bit her tongue and refrained from correcting him on his methods. She knew that he would dismiss her more delicate handling of the bottles as a waste of time. She did not hear the small snap of wire as J.T. picked up another bottle and flung it at the floor. She did, however, hear the heavy metal door swinging shut. She had simply stared stupidly and was greeted with a total darkness. They both stood still for a few moments and then darted for the door, the glass crunching underfoot. They yanked and pushed on the door for several minutes, unwilling to accept the fate that the locked door presented.

"I knew it was too easy," Liberty whispered. She kept waiting for her eyes to adjust, although she knew it was impossible. There was no light at all, nothing for her vision to latch onto and focus in on.

She found herself slipping back into a hazy memory of being locked in a closet when she was not even of school age yet. She and a friend were exploring the master bedroom closet, giggling at the fun of being some place you know you shouldn't be and the only one to intervene is a teenage babysitter who is busy on the phone downstairs. She couldn't remember who closed the door or why, but she did remember the dark and how the clothing seemed to take on a life of its own. It had seemed like forever until their cries were answered. Ever since then, she had developed a case of claustrophobia. The intensity was fading, the fear of closing the bedroom door at bedtime had ceased after a year of the closet incident but she refused to sleep in the top bunk bed at camp when she was ten. To this day, she always kept a window cracked in the car.

J.T. chose not to reply to his ex-girlfriend's comment or her silence. He had returned to his method of smashing bottles. He moved along methodically; shelf by shelf, left to right, top to bottom. He could hear Liberty crying in-between the smashing and his own cursing as the glass dug into him.

"J.T. I can't see. I'm scared." She had not moved from the door. The darkness was getting to her. She couldn't understand how people who became blind during sudden accidents ever adjusted.

"Just hang on. I promise I'll get you out of this," J.T. reassured.

His voice seemed to calm her some and she began to search the floor. "I think I found it!" Liberty screamed and rushed over to the door. J.T. collided into her as he reached the door. It felt like hours since they entered that small room.

"It doesn't work," she moaned.

"No. You are just doing it wrong," J.T. protested in doubt.

"I know how to turn a key, J.T."

"Give it to me," J.T. demanded and grabbed it out of her hands. She was right, it didn't work. "You bastard!" He screamed, "You lied to us."

"Maybe he didn't lie to us," Liberty said softly. She was in a corner now, sinking down to the floor.

"He never said anything about being locked in here. The key was for the other door."

"So we were fucked from the beginning?"

"Why would the door just close like that? You did something!" Liberty accused.

"Yes. I wanted to spend my final hours in a dark room, inhaling poisonous chemicals, with you."

"Well, you speeded up our demise that's for sure." Liberty snapped and heard J.T. sigh in response.

They were silent for a few moments. "Maybe there's another key," Liberty offered.

"Maybe," J.T. said but didn't make a move.

"I can't stay here in the dark," she moaned.

He moved closer to her and held her. "You aren't alone here. I'm here."

They stayed silent for quite sometime, until she began to cough and tasted blood. "I can't breathe in here," she muttered and stood up. She began to pat her hands on the wall, looking for an air vent. "Do you remember seeing a vent on the ceiling? Maybe we can climb out through that," she offered.

"No. I remember the walls and shelves being steel or iron. It's like a…" he trailed off, thinking of steel boxes, metal jail cells, and concrete tombs.

"Play the tapes again," Liberty instructed.

"I don't have the player."

"What?"

"If you don't have it, we left it sitting on that desk in the other room," J.T. said sullenly.

She had given up on the search for a vent, another door, anything and began to move around and shake the bottles, listening for the slight clink of a metal key on glass. Her breath caught in her throat as she came across an unfamiliar texture.

"J.T," she managed to say as she ran her fingers over the fabric. Burlap, she realized. Like a large potato sack, she decided as she ran her hands over the lumpy shape. "J.T!" she screamed when she felt wetness on her fingertips. She screamed a little when she felt him touch the top of her head and then her shoulder as he groped around in the dark.

"What is this?" J.T. asked after she had taken his hands and placed them on the burlap sack. He squeezed the strange stiff form in the sack and then pulled his hands immediately away when he realized that the rough fabric was wet. His mind filled in the gaps, what his eyes could not see and the conclusion was alarming.

His panic came in an uproar and he bolted for the door and began to bang his fists on it. Liberty simply felt for her head, put it in her hands and sunk down to the floor, not caring the least about glass shards.

"I can't breathe," he muttered wildly, his breathing rapid and uneven.

"You are hyperventilating. Come on, calm down. I'm here with you. We'll figure something out. Or someone will find us. I don't know who or what that was in the sack," Liberty realized that she shouldn't have even verbalized that thought. She should have kept it unsaid, where they could still dismiss it as a strange hallucination.

"Don't you remember that monitor? Dylan and Marco? Darcy. I mean I think it was Darcy but it's not like you could really freakin' tell," J.T. yelled and whirled around. He wasn't alone in the room. Someone besides Liberty. They needed light to be able to see who it was. There would be a light switch or chain somewhere. There had to be.

"Look, just move around and shake the bottles, you'll hear a key if it's in there. Let's not give up yet." Liberty said and crawled along the floor. She was moving towards the last shelf when she heard J.T. cry out.

"I think I found a light," J.T. nearly yelled, his tone indicated he felt this was some kind of victory.

"No. No, I don't think that's a good idea," Liberty mumbled as she thought of booby-traps. In her head she began to recite things she had previously read; "An explosion is a sudden increase in volume and release of energy in a violent manner, usually with the generation of high temperatures and the release of gases." She interrupted thoughts like those with silent reassurances; Keep holding yourself together. Fake it. You have to keep him calm. Just keep it together, even if it is an act. Her mental retaliation was "The Latin verb explodere means "to hiss a bad actor off the stage."

"We need a light to find the key."

"No, just wait…"

"We can find something with it on. Another key. We could break down a shelf and wedge open the door," J.T. argued as he wrapped his fist around the chain.

The last thing they would see was a bright flash of light.

* * *

Authors Note: I'm no MacGyver and my last science class was years ago. I'm very right-brained too. For the sake of my story, I'm assuming that the explosion isn't too violent and the fire would be contained. 

The text about explosions: Credit Wikipedia. But pretend that Liberty read it in some school textbook. P


	6. Tough Luck

Warning: Ever seen that episode of Alfred Hitchcock's Presents called "Man from the South"? The gambler who will lose more than money if he can't flick his lighter 10 times in a row? Well, Sean's trap is based off of that. Amputation – but it is not described. The actual act is one vague sentence.

"Hello?" Ellie asked, her voice shaking.

"Ellie?" Sean questioned.

"Sean!"

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, um, I think so. I mean, considering," She said as she carefully sat up, not wanting to cut herself on the razor wire maze that looped around her.

"Look, I can see you. Can you see me at all?"

"No," Ellie muttered from the bottom of the pit. She nearly stopped breathing when she saw that saw blades were embedded in the concrete wall, some horizontal and other vertical. Could she use them as a type of ladder? Was that what was expected? "What does the rest of this place look like?"

"Um, it's just small room. You are in a hole in the floor. I'm maybe five feet from you," Sean paused and wondered how to describe the contraption that held his right hand prisoner. It was hard to tear his eyes away from the clear box in which a motionless saw blade was suspended. The way the gears were situated, he could only imagine that at some point, it would be coming down on him. Slowly. He managed to speak, "My hand is in some weird device so I can't move. There's a TV that keeps flashing stuff from other rooms. We aren't alone here."

"What do you mean?"

"The whole gang is here, that's what I mean."

"Who?"

"Your friends, my friends. Jay, Alex, Marco, Craig, Ashley…Emma," He no longer cared to finish "…all of them."

"Are we hostages?"

Sean stared at the dead kids on the screen. "I'm not sure, El."

"How is Marco? Ashley? Craig?" The last name almost made her throw up, but not because he disgusted her or even that he was more important. His name acted as an exclamation point to this whole situation.

"They are very still," Sean said after a moment.

"Are they dead?"

"I'm not sure," Sean decided on saying. He needed this girl calm and here with him. "Look, I have a tape in my pocket. Is there a tape player down there with you?"

Ellie looked around frantically, then inched her hand under and over the wire so she could snatch the player. She then patted down her pockets and removed her own tape. "Yes. Throw down your tape." The plastic tape clicked as it hit the concrete floor. The only sound after was the slight rustle of her clothes, then her nails scraping on the floor as she pulled the tape closer to her. She awkwardly settled back into the small space that was free of wire. "Which do you want to hear first?"

"Mine."

"Hello Sean. I'll get right to the point. You've taken too many gambles in your life. Spur of the moment fist fights with other boys from school, stepping in front of a loaded gun, and you return to the scene of the crime only to injure another. How many more chances can you take? Let's play one final round. In center of the room is a hole. You will find a ring of keys. The game is simple, insert a key into the lock on the device your hand is stuck in and turn. With enough luck, you will remain unharmed."

Sean angrily jerked his hand back and forth, but it would not budge an inch. He beat his left hand on the plexyglass case. Throughout all his frenzied actions, his eyes remained fixed on the saw.

"I need you to crawl over and grab those keys. Just move slowly. I'll tell you when to stop if it looks like you are going to be cut."

God, how she wanted to be able to see his face was one of many thoughts she had as she inched over to the keys. Despite all of her fear, panic, and whatever jumbled emotions were surging through her at this moment, she felt success in that they still could work as a team. Ellie eased herself back into the original position she was in, keys in hand. "Okay, I'm throwing them up to you now."

"Hold up okay? I need you to be very careful when throwing them. I'm," Sean paused and looked into the contraption his hand was lodged in. He decided it would be best to hold back any details. "I can't move to grab them."

"Okay," her voice was shaking again.

"Just aim up and over to your right. It's not a hard right, but I think that I could grab them with my foot if they hit the corner."

Ellie slowly angled her hand back, preparing to throw. "Cameron, have you ever seen me in gym class?"

"You'll do fine."

"Seriously, it was the reason I had so much detention in high school. It was from skipping gym. Up until this point, gym class humiliation was the most traumatic moment in my life."

"I appreciate your humor and all, but can you throw the damn keys?"

"Look, it's all that's keeping me from screaming and never stopping," Ellie snapped. She felt a tear trickle down her cheek.

"We're going to be fine. Just throw me the keys, alright, El? The sooner you do, the sooner I'll be free and I'll help you get out of there."

"Throwing them," Ellie said and threw the bunch of keys as hard as she could. "Shit," she muttered as she watched them get caught in the wire and slowly tumble back down. "I feel like I'm playing some carnival game. You know the one where you throw a ball…"

"Funny you should mention carnival games," Sean muttered before she could finish. The device he was in reminded him of the games in grocery stores and malls, the ones that you maneuvered and dropped a claw down on to win a stuffed animal.

Ellie slowly inched her way towards the ring of keys, arching her back, stretching out her left arm while keeping the right close by her side as she wiggled among the maze of razor wire. "Fuck!" she yelled as she felt the first cut.

"Are you okay?" Sean asked, frantic. He could only see her left foot. He watched as she slipped back into the small space that was free of wire. Her incoherent mumbling reassured him that she was.

"I'm trying again," Ellie declared. "Shit!" She screamed as she watched the keys lodge themselves in a web of wire several feet above her head. She didn't hear a word from Sean. "I'm sorry. I can't move my arm that well when I throw them. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I know it's not easy. Just don't panic. Let's just look at the wire and come up with a plan so you don't cut yourself when you are grabbing the keys."

He had waited patiently while she wiggled her way up and around the wire. He looked away once as he saw the wire scrape across the back of her neck. He let her rest and then called out optimistically, "Three times the charm."

Upon hearing the successful jingle of the keys hitting the floor above her, Ellie relaxed her posture and laid flat on the floor.

"Got them," Sean confirmed. Once the keys were in his hand, he struggled to look over them. He even studied the lock, hoping there was some trick. Although judging from that message, this was like playing the slots. After the first few tries produced nothing, he began to move faster, thinking that it was merely psychological. He was trying to psyche him out. If the news reports on this serial killer were correct, the killer was a bit of a preacher and did provide a way out, if you wanted to live. He wanted you to live. That thought was greeted with the revving of the saw.

"What's going on?" Ellie yelled.

"I'm okay. It's okay," Sean managed to yell back. The idea of this being a game was putting strange thoughts into his head. Each time he turned the key, he wasn't sure what would happen. He had a strange flashback to the jack-in-the-box that scared him as a kid. He made sure to keep an order to the keys and prayed to God that his sweaty fingers wouldn't make him slip up and drop the keys. The saw moved down gradually with each wrong answer. He didn't consider the keys that produced no movement a wrong answer. That was simply coming out even and bought him more time, just one more chance. He could get lucky this time.

When Sean let out a cry of anguish, Ellie found herself screaming as well.

* * *

So I discovered the stats section and found out that this story has gotten over 500 hits. And here I thought Nikki and Diana were the only sickos reading it (sarcasm). Who's out there? Chris, are you there? 


	7. The Ghosts

Warning: It's not a particularly graphic chapter. Unless if you are going to imagine what comes later. It's a lot like the JT/Liberty chapter. But as a bit of a teaser, this chapter was actually inspired by how my cat likes to put her paw into the toaster. She's never gotten hurt, don't worry. Although the other night she took it to a whole new level and spilled a glass of water that was sitting next to the toaster. Is there such a thing as a suicidal cat? Anyway, that just proves this whole story is actually inspired by fear, but that might be a bit obvious.

* * *

"What could two people on the polar opposites of the high school social spectrum have in common with each other? I will give you the answer to that, a meek person breeds a wasted life. You both are frightened of the idea of standing on your own two feet and have locked yourselves in stereotypical boxes. Toby Isaacs and Hazel Aden, in some awkward attempt to be a better person, you both blend into all the characters in your life and try to take in what traits you stupidly find valuable. In this process, you both have become empty shadows of what you once were. Where is the key to exit this trap you've made for yourselves?"

"Is this some joke?" Hazel asked when the tape finished playing. "A Halloween prank? We woke up in some twisted fun house?"

"I don't know," Toby said as he stared at the TV monitor that flashed snippets of the others that were obviously struggling with bizarre puzzles of their own. There wasn't much else to look at besides for the TV. The room looked like a steel box and felt like one as well. The only variety from the dark grey slabs of fused metal were the areas where the wall appeared to be cut away to provide a tight home for a monitor and the fluorescent light sources on the ceiling. He thought he might go crazy if the lights were ever to go out. This situation was beginning to create strange scenarios in his mind. Would it be better to be locked in an empty dark room or a cluttered dark room? If it's empty at least you can keep your eye on the predator. If it's cluttered, at least you have a chance at finding a hiding space. Blend into the environment, just like the tape said. He was beginning to think that a great deal of strategy was involved and the room itself stood for something.

"Why am I here with you?" Hazel wondered aloud.

"Because the voice on the tape is making some moral statement on high school cliques," Toby snarled. "I don't know. Maybe someone got creative with their science fair project this year. Maybe Simpson is having a mental breakdown and blames his wayward students. Maybe…"

"Shut up," Hazel snapped.

They were silent for a few moments. Toby kept his right hand in his pocket over the note and key that Hazel had not seen. He was the first to awaken and had discovered it as he had checked himself over for injuries.

"Why are we still alive and they are dead?" Hazel asked.

"Ashley might still be out," Toby proclaimed. He had been watching for her more than the others.

"I don't understand!"

"I don't either!"

"We don't have any food or water in here. It's just a steel room. There's nothing here, Toby, but a locked door. Why couldn't he just have killed us already?"

"Because apparently that's too easy."

"Look at what happened to…" Hazel couldn't finish. She went over to the door now and started pounding.

Toby rubbed his forehead, trying to analyze the tape's message. He could only take in the bitingly personal words. He was a wallflower, yes. He did blend into a crowd. He was the last person anyone would miss from a room, okay. But to simply kill him like he didn't matter? He didn't exist only in the shadows. He wasn't like a ghost whose screams were only occasionally picked up when things got quiet. Someone did see his movements and hear him. And he most certainly wasn't worthless enough to be presumed as good as dead by a serial killer who had decided that he was less likely to contribute. Like that person had the right to decide. He would be going off to college, get a degree, marry one day. So he preferred the safe lifestyle. That didn't mean he couldn't survive when things got tough.

He threw the key and the note down on the floor. Hazel looked over at the small metallic noise. She picked up the key and crumpled note, scanning both over. "Why didn't you show this to me sooner?"

"Because you are going to do the first thing that the note says not to do," Toby said.

"Use it on the door? Damn right I am. Look at that TV and give me one good reason why I shouldn't?" Hazel argued.

"Look at that TV and give me one good reason why we shouldn't wait and just think this through."

"We aren't in any of those torture pits. We're in an empty room. If anything, he wants us to sit in here like scared little kids and wait. Just wait and then he comes in and finishes us off or just let's us rot."

"If he wanted us to rot he would have done what he's done with Craig, Jimmy, Spinner, and Dylan and put a shackle on us. Something else is going on. He's planning something. Let's just think."

"Yeah and look closer. Dylan's obviously dead or close to it. Jimmy and Spinner look like they are freaking out. I have no idea what the hell Peter is doing screaming like that so he's obviously not doing so well. Neither is Manny. I'm so glad I can't hear her," Hazel rambled as she watched images flicker by on the screen. "Sean. I can't even think about him. Or Marco. Paige and Emma look like they haven't woken up yet, or at least I hope. Ashley is okay though. I can tell she's breathing. I think I saw her move a bit. Let's get out of here and go get her," Hazel tried. She stood next to the door.

"There's a trapdoor," Toby exclaimed and pointed upwards. "There's a lock. The key's for that."

"Are you kidding me? First of all, how would we get up there? Second of all, who knows what we'd crawl into? The safe bet is unlocking this door and walking out."

"I'd help you and you'd pull…" Toby abruptly stopped talking when he heard the familiar noise of a key sliding into a lock. "You didn't." Toby slapped the wall out of frustration and a metallic echo filled the room.

Hazel turned the key and gave a tug on the door. She started hyperventilating when she saw it wouldn't budge. She did something wrong. It was like when she had returned home from a long day and wasn't in a clear state of mind, simply inserted the key wrong. She did something wrong. She realized she really did something wrong when she realized that she couldn't pull the key out.

"It wasn't just your decision to make. It's not just your life!" Toby yelled and pushed her out of the way. He yanked on the door, then on the key. He frantically twisted it. "How could you?"

"What's that noise?" Hazel breathed.

Toby stood up and the two stared at each other. "Gas stove," he mumbled. His mind painted a scenario of the quick hiss and blue flame of the gas stove in his father's apartment when his parents had first gotten divorced.

"We're being gassed?"

"I…don't…smell anything," he mumbled as his mind jumped to the image of the oven coils quickly fading from cold grey to hot orange. For some reason, he thought of the times he and J.T. had cooked pepperoni pizzas on Friday nights when the dork duo were dateless. It was a lot of pepperoni pizzas. He had to stop his mind now, before it went someplace he didn't want to go. He knew that underneath these memories lay suspicion and anger and dark places he could not go if he wanted out of this. No, this was not it. He didn't care if he was overreacting and this was some sick joke. He had to take this seriously. He moved under the trap door and gestured upwards. "I'm going to hoist you up. I want you to pull down on the door."

She didn't offer any argument, even though he doubted the geek could hold her. As she stepped on his back, she remembered that adrenaline could help people move cars when a bad accident had left them in a life or death situation.

"It's not moving," Hazel muttered and looped her fingers through the small metal hoop attached to the door. It was like the attic trap door at her grandmother's house; the one that took some force to open. "Get out from under me. If that won't open it…"

Toby rolled out from under her. He watched as she hung there in mid air, like she was a scared little girl afraid to drop from the monkey bars in the school playground. They had barely begun to live. They were too innocent to die like this. He watched her fall.

"Does the floor seem like it's warmer than before?" Hazel questioned as they sat there sullenly.

"Maybe it's just our body heat building up," Toby suggested hopefully. He remembered back to when he had struck the wall out of frustration. He had felt a strong vibration and the acoustics were not normal for that of a steel wall. His mind painted a picture of red hot coils sandwiched in between the concrete wall and the steel one. He watched as Hazel put her hand on the wall and quickly removed it. He saw pain on her face and slowly approached. He could feel the heat building.

"So we'll just stay in the middle of the room. The floor isn't hot. Not like the walls anyway."

"You don't understand."

"What don't I understand? I understand that I just turned on the oven when I went to unlock the door," Hazel snapped.

"Exactly it's like an oven. We don't even have to worry about being burned. If he wanted to torch us, he would have. I guess there's comfort in that. But we aren't safe, not by a long shot. Think of the warmest muggy day and how hard it was to breath. The heat will build up and breath will liquefy the lungs. You'll pass out before you feel anything else."


	8. The Big Mouth

Warning: This trap is kind of a weird one. No blood, but if you've had some kind of traumatic experience in a hospital involving a breathing tube, you might want to avoid this chapter. Other possible triggers: Paige's rape and anxiety attack symptoms.

* * *

When Paige had first woke up and ran through the possible options of where she could be, she thought that she might be in the hospital. That clue came from the strange machine next to her, the stiffness of the mattress she was resting on, and of course the object lodged in her mouth. Had she had a car accident? Climbing into her car was the last moment that she could trace back to. Where were the doctors with their white jackets and vocabulary that might as well be another language? What about a sympathetic nurse with a reassurance of where she was, informing her that her mom was waiting in the next room, and maybe a brief explanation of why she was here? She'd even be comforted with the glimpse of a hospital uniform and the pinch of a shot. She'd take anything that seemed normal and real. The rusty pipes and cobwebs on the ceiling was something from out of a nightmare. 

She had tried to scream but discovered she could not make a sound. She yanked on the tube some and the sensation made her gag. The only comfort she got from the situation was that she could feel her chest rising and falling and that coincided with the slight whoosh of air that was coming from the machine next to her.

Everything was slowly coming into focus now; the pieces of the puzzle were coming together. Paige noticed an open doorway and her eyes stayed fixed on that as she sat up. Her head bumped a single dangling light bulb and it flickered. Had she been breathing on her own, she probably would have begun to hyperventilate at the idea of being left in the dark. She squinted at the strange transparent box in the next room. Some incubation chamber? Who was inside? She saw the glimmer of blonde hair as the figure shifted ever so slightly.

Even though she was no where ready to confront this strange situation, she forced herself to look around. Abandon warehouse was the immediate conclusion. Not a hospital, no way could a hospital ever be this dirty and poorly lit. Then why the hospital equipment? Was it hospital equipment? She looked over the strange machine and couldn't believe she had overlooked the small monitor that sat on top of it. She was shocked to see friends and former schoolmates on the screen. She needed answers now and grabbed the tape player that was sitting next to the monitor.

"Hello Paige. You might be more confused than the others. While you slept, an endotracheal tube or otherwise known as a breathing tube was placed through your mouth and passed into your trachea. The ventilator is set on a timer and what flows inside you will slowly shift from oxygen to a poisonous gas. You may have noticed that you are unable to speak with the breathing tube in place. I'm sure that is difficult for someone whose quick witty remarks are her primary defense mechanism. At times you speak too harshly and without much thought. This is why you have received this test; it is suitable for someone who should keep both feet on sturdy ground and not a foot in her mouth. Act quickly and remove the tube or choke on your words."

She couldn't help but feel violated at the idea that this tube put inside her against her consent. She felt a tear slip down her cheek; she didn't even have to blink to encourage it to fall. She felt herself floating away a bit. She flashed back to what it might have been like while she was out cold; her unknown attacker was simply a black shadow hovering over her, pushing the tube further and further inside her. Penetrating her mouth, taking away her voice, pushing so deep inside of her. The tube stuck a little bit as he passed it down her throat and he had to mount her, pushing deeper and deeper inside of her.

Dean; the robber, the rapist. That wasn't her attacker this time but the force used against her in this situation brought on an unbearable wave of horrible thoughts. She gave a good yank on the breathing tube, no way was she going to roll over and play dead. She coughed some and gave another yank. She felt her throat muscles tighten. You are choking, her brain screamed and she fell back against the gurney. No, you are still breathing, Paige tried to reassure herself. Her throat was so tight. She flashed back to her slow recovery from the rape. Once she had rushed out of Simpson's class and went straight to the school nurse. She couldn't breathe, she complained to the nurse, her throat was too tight and the air wasn't finding its way to her lungs. Something was blocking her throat. She had felt unreal, barely aware to vocalize her strange symptoms. You shouldn't have to tell yourself to breathe but that's what she was doing, she rambled and noticed that her voice sounded so far away. Where were her words?

Instead of a doctor's office, she found herself in the school psychologist's office. Panic attack, Ms. Sauvé confirmed. Not uncommon for someone who had just experienced a trauma. She had tried to reassure Paige that she was in control and told her of techniques to use to talk herself down from the anxious state if she ever felt those symptoms again. And it did happen several other times; she'd be numb, her spirit beaten down by Dean's assault, and then the physical contact from a friend or just someone brushing past her in the hall would snap her into an alert state of mind. It was the kind of state of mind that warned her that danger was here and she had to either fight or take flight.

The warnings her brain would fire out exhausted her from time to time. Sometimes she preferred the numbness. Sometimes it was better to be numb and just go through the motions of every day life. In this moment she was feeling less now; her hands felt like they were part of a stone statue, certainly not of her own body, and she could barely make them do what she wanted them to. The poison was seeping into her. She sat up and gave another pull on the tube and nearly gagged at the resistance. She wished she could scream for help. But she didn't have her voice.

Her attacker wanted to take away her words? She flashed back to a counseling session with Ms. Sauvé. The day after the trial where her attacker was free and she was still trapped. That very day, she had made a desperate attempt to escape her own head and had inflicted punishment on him herself by plowing her boyfriend's car into her rapist's car. She had been so sickened by how he valued his car more than he valued another person. Sweet revenge she had thought at the time. But then Sauvé had to add weight to Paige's shoulders and told her that she had triumphed over her rapist; she had watched Paige find her voice again. And she had soon after. She did feel like she was Paige again.

No one was going to break her again. Fight back, Paige told herself as she managed to lift herself off the gurney and stumbled closer to the machine. She assumed that she could simply remove the tube but quickly realized her killer made that impossible. The strange numbers on the buttons and dials made no sense to her and she did not dare touch them. What if she made an adjustment and increased the amount of poisonous gas flowing into her?

Paige slowly walked towards the open doorway, the plastic medical tube slithering along behind her. She headed towards the blonde in the clear box. Maybe somehow they could work together. She would pause every once in awhile to give the tube a good yank. Sometimes the choking sensation brought her down to her knees and she'd slowly pick herself up again. She was not the type to fall. This was not it, she told herself.

* * *

Thanks to Nikki for suggesting inhaling a toxic balloon, there's no balloon, but the suggestion helped me to get over my writer's block.  



	9. Essential For Survival

Warning: I discuss Emma's eating disorder a little bit in this chapter. I don't know if it's trigger worthy for anyone with an ED, but just thought I'd mention it. No blood, but she certainly doesn't get off easy when it comes to traps.

* * *

When Emma woke up, she was too scared to move. She barely dared to move her head to look around. Her vision was still a bit blurry and it took her several moments to realize that the plexy glass around her was causing a great deal of the distortion. Prior to that discovery, she had simply assumed that her memory loss and confusion was brought on by a relapse. She used to feel like she was walking around wearing foggy goggles, ear muffs, and weights on her limbs when she was fighting to live by refusing food. 

Her breathing became more rapid as she heard pounding on the glass. Then she realized it was the shaking of her hands and feet. She couldn't believe how scared to move she was. As her fingers wrapped around the tape player, she thought about when she would awaken from a nightmare and be too frightened to run to her mother's bed. She'd be so still as she played dead. Then the monster can't find you. You can't see him so he can't see you.

But she was in this clear box on the floor, in clear view. Emma had seen some kind of monitor on the other side of the room but her breath fogged the glass as she strained to focus on the moving black and white images. Even though she found it too hard to study the monitors, she was thankful for their light. From the fading and bouncing light, she could see pipes zig zagging above her. She followed the path and saw that several emptied into the box she was resting in. She clicked on the player.

"Hello, Emma. No doubt you are wondering what is going on. I will explain it to you. I know that you enjoy being the crusader, but what happens when you find yourself crumbling and you become the exact thing you were fighting against? It's admirable that you strive to make the world a better place but pathetic when you commit the same actions you condone. Are you the one who takes on the weight of the world until it crushes her? Who exactly is Emma Nelson? You know doubt have wondered as you dealt with anorexia and built yourself back up. You survived that. Can you survive this?

You are in a water chamber that will fill; the amount depending on your own movements. Like your life, you cannot just climb out of the box you've built yourself into. The combination to the lock is written on the box, each row signifies a possible combination and each reads left to right."

The chilling tone and cryptic message sent her into a frenzy. The fight or flight sensation had kicked into gear. When she felt the water begin to trickle down on her left leg, she realized that she must have triggered some water pressure control. It was difficult to glance around for some kind of wire, something attached to her, something that would give her a clue how to take action. Her jeans were thoroughly soaked now and she knew she had to do something. She twisted and eased herself around so she could see the numbers written on the glass.

You can survive on water, Emma had told herself as she battled the authority figures in the hospital who had forced nutrients into her by I.V. first. Then came nurses with nutritional drinks and soft voices. Solid food, plump full of calories came next. The interrogation by a psychologist and preaching from a nutritionist were only added bonuses. She had tried to be perfect Emma for at first, after all she did want to get better. Sometimes it was easy to slip into perfect Emma mode; the girl does the right thing, enjoyed receiving praise for her accomplishments, and fought for what she believed was right. That had to be the one who could beat this. But every once in awhile she'd slip up and make comments on the purity of water; you can survive on water. She always enjoyed the smoothness, the simple ness, the relief the clear liquid had. It was empty but gave her the fullness she needed, the kick to keep her body moving through the day. When the day became too much, the shower was a safe retreat and the pounding of the water muffled out any crying. If she was alone, she'd do laps in the swimming pool. Nothing else could possibly drown out the noise in her head.

Ironic that she found herself in this situation Emma thought as she debated where the correct combination would be placed. Where did the killer think she would be least likely to try? She tried to recite the numbers aloud as she crawled around in the box. She told herself it wasn't an impossible task. The box was high enough to allow her to move fairly comfortably. She tried not to think about the amount of possible combinations she had to try. She remembered student ID numbers, locker combinations, why not this? But the slightest error would cause her to double check.

As she scrambled, she took in a mouthful of water and choked. Her lungs burned and limbs felt heavy and stiff as the water and pressure level rose. Water was not so friendly as she once thought. It wasn't so weightless after all, the slender blonde thought as she began to panic even more. She was going to have to adopt a new strategy if she wanted to keep breathing. No problem, Emma tried to soothe herself. She'd memorize more than one combination. She ran her fingers over the numbers and whispered them aloud. She just needed some order, needed some control. Memorize the sections of numbers, crawl back to the lock to put them in, and then go for the next section of numbers.

She screamed when she heard a pounding on the box. The sight of Paige made her freeze. She stared at the tubing in her mouth, dangling onto the floor. Emma could only stare at Paige as she watched Paige pull at it; she was flooded by mental images of her past purging habits. When Emma choked on the water, she began to crawl around the box more. She had forgotten the order of the numbers. She could not remember them, not in this moment. She tore off pieces of her shirt and tried to jam the water spouts. The box vibrated as her hip slammed into the side of the box as she crawled around.

She moved back into the original position she had woken in and began to work at the lock. This was the final row. At least she assumed she had not overlooked a possible combination, but how much truth laid in assumptions? She yanked on the lock, pushed on the door. She had made a mistake. It was too late for a mistake. At some point she had messed up the order of the numbers and she did not know when her mistake had taken place. She couldn't keep the order of the numbers straight. Things were never clear, never neatly ordered, and the solution she picked wasn't as pure as she thought it was.


	10. Tangled Web

Warning: We're back with Ellie in the razor wire pit. This chapter gives a nod to Suspiria. Violence/injuries/gore is just implied, not described in detail.

The tears spilled down her face when she saw him lean over the edge of the pit. Ellie didn't say a word as Sean shakily informed her that he was going for help and he would bring someone back once he got help; he needed help or he would bleed to death. She could only nod. She jumped a bit when she saw him drop his boots down with his left hand. She felt her heart warm up a bit at the gesture; his steel toed boots were much thicker than the pair of worn converse sneakers she had thrown on that morning before her early a.m. class. She nodded more rapidly as he added "Remember to crawl up on your right side, there's less wire there."

She was curled up and silent, listening to Sean's movements. The rustle of his clothing as he moved told her that he was holding up, but stumbling. The jingle of the keys and twist of the key in the lock was what kept her calm. She wasn't sure when she should act. She couldn't help be terrified of pain and hoped that she wouldn't have to. Yes, she was buying into the whole damsel in distress notion. Hell yes, she was buying into it. When it became too still and she did not hear the door click open, she realized she would have to take action. She realized that they never listened to her tape. A part of her did not want to, thinking that they missed a vital clue that would have kept them away from danger. But she knew that she needed that clue now.

"Hello, Ellie. The pit you are now sitting in is my comment on how you choose to survive. You often sit back and wait for things to happen, silently suffering until things become too much to handle. I would not be surprised if you have not sprung into action and your ex-lover is wandering down the hall wounded. You need to take control and trust your instincts. Sometimes it seems like you are lingering behind the crowd, thinking of others feelings more than your own. This is no way to live. Neither is using pain to control pain. I know that in the past you used self-mutilation as a survival strategy. How much blood are you willing to shed to stay alive?"

She left the tape running, hoping that the eerie voice would step out of the static and give her a hint. She stared up at the web of razor wire and plotted her next move, right down to how much she would tilt her head and the degree she would angle her arms and legs as she crawled up and through the mess of wire. Reaching for Sean's boots felt like one step closer to her escape.

Ellie noticed how thin she had become when she slid on Sean's boots. She was aware that they would be big on her and seem clownish, but she had worn them before. She'd shove them onto her small feet and hastily lace them up when stumbling outside late at night to retrieve a science book from the backseat or heading out to shovel snow from the car in the early morning. She smiled slightly as she thought of how he'd be there offering her a warm cup of coffee when she stomped back inside. He liked to be the one to shovel snow. She liked to be the one to surprise and take on the task before he'd woken up.

Back to reality; at least her thinness would do her some good in this situation. She tried to block the tape's voice from her head. She was aware of how she had become so skinny, it was pure nerves. That was her diet. She took on too much, ate too little, and slept even less. She felt too much for everyone else – most recently being the regret of not seeing Sean when he was arrested. That one lingered and stung like an irritating hang nail. She worried about Ashley's feelings while she nursed a crush on Manning…Craig. The last she had heard from him was a late night phone call a month or two ago. It wasn't anything unlike the rest. He frequently called her crying when he was high on some drug. She had tried to tell herself that no news was good news, that he finally went back home to Joey to clean up and wasn't couch-hopping anymore.

She realized she was doing it again. She angrily tore off her bulky jean jacket, thinking it would catch on the wire. She tore it into strips and wrapped it around her hands, knowing that the saw blades that aligned the wall of the pit would be used as a makeshift ladder. She felt stronger in this moment. She felt it at least for a few seconds as she acknowledged that she must take better care of herself and remember her own delicate nature. The hoarse voice on the tape was right in a way.

Climbing was slow. She hated the saw blades she had to step on as she was convinced that one small wrong distribution of her body weight could cost her this 'game.' In all of her preparation of climbing and maneuvering, she had failed to prepare herself for the shock of seeing Sean.

His face was grayish and his eyes were saggy. He reminded her of the nightmares she had when she had when she had stopped cutting. She had dreamed up distorted ghostly faces that had screaming mouths and wild eyes. Only Sean's were half dead; vacant and wide, but definitely half dead. Despite her coping technique was self-injury, her greatest fear was amputations. She'd never seen a real one before. She was beginning to understand the tape now. She never even imagined that death could come so painful and hard, yet so easy because our bodies are far too breakable. If she made it out of here, she was sure that she would never leave her apartment ever again.

His appearance haunted her enough so that she didn't feel the initial sting as she fell back into the web of razor wire.


	11. Guilty as Charged

Warning: Possible mutilation of others.

"Hello Jimmy and Spinner. I wonder how long it took you to realize what you had in common with each other. Something tells me that it's always in the back of your minds. I'm going to take you back to that fateful day when Jimmy's life changed forever because of a bullet. It's time to bring all the guilt, all the insecurities, and all of your regrets to the table. The strange situation you find yourselves in is a reenactment of sorts. Jimmy, it's unfortunate for you that you have no use of your hands or your legs. You are totally reliant on Spinner for your survival. I'm sure you noticed the shackles on your legs and wrists almost right away, Spinner. Your legs are restrained very tightly, you are about to discover what it feels like to lose. You have more movement available to your arms. This is because you must retrieve a key from inside your best friend's leg."

Spinner clicked off the tape. "Screw that. This is not happening."

Jimmy was silent for a few moments. "Finish the tape," he was finally able to mumble.

"This key will give you both your freedom. Refer to the metal box in the center of the room for further information as to where or how. If you fail to act, fail to develop the will to survive, you too will lose all mobility. The poison will finish you off soon after."

"What does that mean?" Spinner asked after a moment and stared down at his wrists. They continued to listen to the tape roll, waiting for more information.

"I'm not sure. The only thing I can think of is that whatever that is on your wrists are not the same kind of shackle that's on our ankles, my wrists."

Spinner could only stare down at the strange device that was holding him prisoner. He imagined the worst first, but did not see any blades that would deliver an amputation. He started to shake at that thought. He managed to get himself to crawl towards the box even though he felt numb and stiff with dread. He felt the strain from the shackles but managed to get a grip on it. He sat down next to his friend and placed the box between them. He wasn't sure he was ready for this next step. He moved quickly, not even wanting to touch the box. The metal lid hit the floor with a clang and Spinner jumped slightly as if he were avoiding the attack of a snake. Both stared down at the rusty saw that lay on top of several sheets of x-rays.

"I don't know what to do," Jimmy muttered and stared at the TV directly across from him. "We're all here."

"So?" Spin asked as he yanked on the chains and shackles.

"Well, it's got to be someone who knows us who's pulling this shit. I mean I know it seems…crazy to think of that."

"No one we know could pull this off."

"It's personal shit between us. Someone knows. You can't go and dig that up on myspace. Who else could have known about us all? I'm assuming they have shit on the rest of them, unless it's all for show and we are the only ones who know why we are going to..." He couldn't finish that thought.

"It's different people, man. People that some of us don't even associate with. I mean, assume that it's you. What the hell do you know about Jay?" Spinner said, deciding to avoid that last part. He wasn't even considering that an option.

Jimmy glared at Spinner.

"Okay, bad example. What do you know about J.T. or that Liberty girl?"

"So you think it would be someone with access to school records?" Jimmy asked even though he was really just thinking out loud. "Someone who saw Sauvé and got into her files?"

"It doesn't really matter. If he's smart enough to get access to whatever the hell this place is and build a maze for us…like we're lab rats, then he's smart enough to dig info up on us."

"Still, you'd think that he knows us. Knows how we are."

"Are you saying it's me?" Spin asked. The guilt would still eat at him. He valued Jimmy as a friend enough to force himself to look beyond that wheelchair. By ignoring the chair he could ignore the circumstances that brought him to permanently reside in the chair. He hoped it wasn't permanent. The day Jimmy would walk again could erase it all. Then maybe he could finally give up the blame game that had existed for as long as he could remember. Actually he wasn't sure if Jimmy walking would ever solve the problem. They'd still have the past. It always existed and hung over the conversation whenever they brought up junior or senior year at high school and mentioned the "oh hey remember when or remember the kid who did blah blah blah." That shooting had stained everything.

"What is it with you and the blame game?" Jimmy sighed.

"Because I know that you think about what happened. I know that you have to blame me still. Who wouldn't?"

"I don't blame you for what happened with Rick. Not anymore," Jimmy declared. He liked to think that he had to have met whatever step was necessary in moving on. It was like the grieving cycle. Shock; he felt that mostly before the shot and not after. Shock was mainly what kept him staring at Rick, or really more so the gun and not moving fast enough or ducking or just not moving in a straight line so he wouldn't be such an obvious target. Denial; he wasn't sure he would ever get over the fact that he would never walk again. Grief; it was what crept in when it was too quiet or he had to relearn a life skill yet again. It was the whisper that it was all over now. It wasn't entirely his immobility that would keep him quiet and still in that hospital bed, it was grief over what he lost. Bargaining; mainly with the hospital staff and god, they were the ones who were not trying hard enough or just didn't care enough. Searching for why this happened brought on the pointing of fingers. Sometimes even at himself he just shouldn't have gotten involved in the first place; he was a bully too at one point and he should have simply left Rick alone after the incident after all, he'd want to be alone after some humiliation had happened. Finally there was some kind of acceptance. Eventually you just had to let go in order to have some kind of life. The idea that this was it, that this would be the last conversation they would have was too much. And this was the last thing he wanted to be thinking about in his last moments. No, this wasn't it.

"Look, Spin, I don't blame you for what happened. I cannot feel anything. Just do it," Jimmy said. He noticed that his voice was louder and he could barely get the words out his throat was so tight.

"I can't do it. If you don't shut up I'm throwing this saw across the room."

Jimmy sighed. He had come too far to give up now. He nearly had his life taken away from him. When he was strong enough to rebuild what was left, he found that he had to completely relearn a new lifestyle. Sometimes he felt like he had been reincarnated as another person and every once in awhile he'd experience a spell of déjà vu and he'd remember what had existed before. Maybe that was why he felt the need to start things up with a former flame. He wanted her to breathe some of that old Jimmy back into him. Sometimes he couldn't wait to get away from Degrassi. So much haunted him there. Even the friends, the people that he adored, just served as a bridge between old Jimmy and new Jimmy. Sometimes he didn't want to be aware of old Jimmy anymore. If he could just get into a car and drive away, run away and never be found, maybe he'd find some peace. But that was the thing. He couldn't do that. He was dependent on everyone else. And here he was depending on someone again. The anger that boiled inside of him made him see double. At this point, he was certain that if he held that blade in his hand, he would finish what was asked of them. And the tricky thing was that someone had to have known that. Someone had to have paired them up to ensure something that wasn't cracked easy. It had to be based on the people. Two people with history, two people who had bad blood between them, two people who were too different, it all added up in this game.

"I swear, if I had the saw in my hands right now I'd do it. Just finish what you've started."

"Now the truth comes out. You do blame me for Rick shooting you."

"Well, I have to admit, if it wasn't for you trying to fucking blame someone else for the tar and feather incident, I probably would have been the least likely to get shot. Actually, I think you would have been number one. What kind of jack ass pops off on someone he's already gotten beaten down so low?"

"I don't know why I did those things. Jay."

"Oh get off it. Everyone in the whole school blames Jay for anything that _they've_ done wrong."

Jimmy realized he just blew the game. He did exactly what was expected of him. His loss had interfered with the game. He could barely control the words flying out of his mouth. Now he had alienated his only team member. He knew that Spinner could never inflict harm on him with the shooting on his mind. He was feeling the sting of guilt. He remained quiet and Spinner was doing the same. He wanted to say something. He wanted to switch the topic to something cheerful, something that would give them some hope to keep trying. But he couldn't push the weight of their fate off of him. The last thing he wanted was for the shooting to be the last thing they discussed.

"…hairnet," Jimmy muttered.

Spinner looked over at him, confused. Jimmy was relieved to see a strange half smile. Something normal and real did exist here.

"I was just thinking about all the times we've butted heads. Remember the 80's dance?"

"How can I not remember the 80's dance? You have a way of inflicting drama…I mean trauma, on people. Sorry, just recalling a certain incident in Kwan's class in Grade 9 during some drama exercise."

"But hey, I was right there afterwards."

"To gloat."

"No…I don't think so. I don't know. I can't even really remember. Seems like I did it as an educational message," Jimmy paused. He had it now, "The point was that I was there. We don't just have bad history between us." He glanced over at the saw, then back at Spinner's face. He moved his gaze back onto the saw trying to seal his message.

"I can hardly feel my hands," Spinner mumbled as he picked up the saw.

"I won't feel a thing. I'm just not going to watch," Jimmy stated. He tried to keep his voice from shaking. He closed his eyes when he heard Spinner start to gag. He wasn't sure if that meant that something was happening or not.

Spin heard himself scream as felt the crushing sensation. Jimmy could only bear to glance over at the distortion the clamps had inflicted on his friend. It seemed hopeless. How could they possibly discover a solution now? They were both left utterly dependent on another party discovering them and doing what they wished. He compared himself and Spinner to a blind man and a deaf man trying to communicate without any knowledge of each other's disabilities. The blind man was shouting now and the deaf man swinging. There was no way they could work together now. They did it all wrong. He felt his mind slipping. He glanced over at Spin, wondering what he was thinking, but his face told him that he probably wasn't capable.

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Thanks to everyone who's been reading and special love goes to those who are leaving reviews!! 


	12. Sink or Swim

Alex squinted and jerked her head around as the fluorescent lights turned on. She wasn't sure she could trust what she saw; she was in a swimming pool. Up until this point, being in the darkness and shoulder deep in cold water had played with her mind quite a bit. She wasn't sure what was real anymore. She was given a few clues prior to the room being flooded with light. She could hear banging and occasionally a yell from somewhere in the building so she knew she was not alone.

Waking up was a shock. She had had plenty of alone time to analyze the events and she was certain that she must have woken up in a slouched seated position in the shallow end of the swimming pool. She was disoriented from whatever drug that had been forced on her and when she scrambled around in the darkness, she had rolled down the slight slope of the pool into the deep end. The foul water snapped her out of the drugged grogginess very quickly. Once she overcame a bout of absolute terror, she had groped around in the darkness in search of something to climb on but if there was something, it was too high. When she shifted in the water, she could hear the echo of water rippling throughout the room so she knew it was a big area. She moved back to the slope of the pool and attempted to climb. At first she thought that the slimy sludge was preventing her from making a progress. She felt stupid when she realized that a shackle was around her ankle and a chain would give her a fierce tug whenever she moved too far.

Everything was confirmed when the lights flickered on. Filthy water was maybe four feet deep at the end of the swimming pool and the rest of the empty pool was stained a scum colored green. Alex still couldn't see the sludge her feet slid on when she moved or the shackle or chain. The water was a dark brown. The paint on the walls and grit on the sides of the pool told her no one had been here in awhile. When the lights flicked on, a video monitor had also flicked on and when the static had settled on the old machine, she saw the source of the bangs and cries.

"Jay," Alex said in a tone that was half a statement and half a question. She watched him run towards her, his shoes squeaking on the pool linoleum. She moved over to the pool ladder.

"How are you doing?" Jay asked as he surveyed her environment. He had run towards her simply out of instinct of protecting the girl who was probably the most important in his life. Yes, this situation had the potential of softening him, especially since two people lay dead in another room because of him. Now he was faced with the challenge of making an attempt to save her, which might result in killing her, or leaving her to her own devices. He had hurt her because he was selfish once before. He would never be selfish when it came to her again. There was no way that he could walk out of this room without her.

"The tape," Jay declared. He grabbed onto the chain that was suspending the tape player above Alex's head. "He will tell us how to solve this. It's almost like a puzzle. It's that guy on the news…" He decided not to finish because he was seeing a side of Alex he had never seen before. He knew that she was a tough girl. In knowing that, he knew that if she ever broke, she might not come out of it.

"You should go," Alex said. "He wants us dead."

"This might tell us how to save you."

"You don't understand," was the only thing she could say. It was obvious to her that someone was bound to play a role in her situation. She couldn't shake the idea that being left in the half full deep end of an abandon swimming pool in the dark required interaction. She couldn't find the player on her own or the solution. At least when she was alone she was in charge, even if that meant she was doing nothing.

Jay clicked the player on and she cringed at the voice.

"Hello, Alex. Your lifestyle indicates that you only do enough to stay afloat. While you are guilty of petty crimes and the unruly behavior of the rebel group at your school, your true crime is the failure to realize your own self-worth based on circumstances you live in. A wasted life is the outcome when you behave badly because others have told you that you will never be as good as someone else for whatever reason, perhaps they judged you based on where you grew up or your clothes. Instead of them, you should have believed in yourself. This is your wake up call. Either sink or swim."

"Keys. Keys," Jay muttered as he looked around the room.

"What happened to you?" Alex whispered as she stared into his eyes.

"Hey, move around a bit again," he demanded. She waved her hands across the surface of the water. "To your right and maybe 5 feet over, see the key. It's under now but…"

She did see it and made an attempt to slide over to it. The next thing she knew, she had felt a tug on her ankle and had dirty water in her mouth and eyes. She managed to pull herself up and tried not to vomit from the aftertaste in her mouth.

"Okay, I'll help," Jay said.

"You are moving too fast. Just…stop…something happened to you. You are scared," Alex managed to say but he was lowering himself into the shallow end of the pool now. "You could look for something to cut me free. You could just get the hell out of here and come back with help."

"Keys," he muttered. He moved too hastily and did not judge the slippery sludge on the slope of the pool.

Alex screamed when she saw him go under the brown water. She didn't have to wait for long to see him reappear, spitting and wiping his eyes. She watched him intently as he began to cross over. When he went under again, she didn't panic, assuming he had slipped. Her heart rate picked up as she felt the water begin to move.

Jay had never even considered a pool drainage gate, much less the possibility of falling into one. He didn't have much time to think before the water began to pound down on him. He knew from the pain and the glimpse of silver razor wire that this killer had thought of everything. If it wasn't in this room, it was in another room. He was the type of guy who always knew where the exit was. It was the first thing he found when he entered a room; he had to know the quickest way out. And there was no way out of here.

Alex couldn't keep her feet on the ground as the water began to push up against her as the pool slowly drained. She could only keep trying to get to her feet every time she lost her balance. She just had to keep her head above the water, she told herself, its almost over. She didn't even think about reaching for the key. It was hard enough to stay above the water, much less calculate how to inch over to the key. She coughed as she choked on the dirty water. The sensation distracted her as she struggled to get on her feet and this time she struck her head hard on the concrete of the pool.


	13. The Voyeur

Warning: Mention of the others grim situations, slight bloodiness. Hint of a suicide.

* * *

"Hello, Peter. You use your camera to shy away from intimacy. Welcome to your own sanctuary; here you will be able to watch fellow classmates and other acquaintances. They will see you too, which you are going to have to use to your advantage. In the metal box in front of the monitors, you will find one of two keys that will unlock the main door. It is accompanied with a map that gives you crucial knowledge as to where the door to the exit is located. However it is not that simple. Another map instructs you as to where to find a key to unlock your room. You are going to have to communicate with the others and instruct them where this key is so that you and the key that unlocks their freedom are out of this room. 

This information accompanies a loaded gun. I know you prefer to have control. How does it feel to be on this side of the camera? Now you are on the other side of the camera and must find a way to communicate to the others and clue them in about what they don't know if you want to save your own life. If you fail to play, the poison will finish you off in two to five hours."

Peter had watched it all on the TV monitors that were stacked in the corner. He had no choice but to carefully study their every movement. When they looked up at the cameras, he frantically began to try to communicate through his own camera. But they weren't looking for him, they were more concerned with the one who put them in this situation and got off on watching it. Even waving the map at the camera had gone unnoticed by the others.

He had to keep shaking off the feeling that he was invisible. Everyone has had that moment when they are ignored in a conversation. You could never be sure why; perhaps the crowds too big and loud, you were being redundant or simply boring, but whatever the reason you could not shake the sensation that you were being overlooked. Every once in awhile, when that happened, he wondered if he were even there. He knew that he wouldn't have this paranoia if he hadn't had that panic attack when his parents announced their divorce. The panic attack that had brought on a sense of not being real, not being present. If he were real and present in that moment, why would they be doing this to him? The whole time he was screaming inside, wake up, wake up.

Here, he knew he wasn't the first to wake up. He had seen J.T. roaming around and watching the monitor. He wasn't sure what happened to Craig. From the moment he started watching, Craig was motionless on the floor except for an occasional twitch and the rhythm of his chest rising and falling. Peter had also noticed that Craig had a scalpel in his hand and there was a smear on the floor. Perhaps it was blood. Something must have happened.

He wasn't the last to wake up either and was holding onto that fact for some hope. Craig's cellmate and ex-girlfriend Ashley had moved around a bit, but never seemed coherent. Peter could relate, whatever he was given to knock him out had made the sequence of events prior to being out cold and the first few moments upon waking a bit hazy and were panic stricken. He couldn't even place it in minutes and it seemed jumbled when he thought about them now. All the others had shown signs of being conscious, with the exception of Ashley and Dylan. He was fairly certain Dylan was never meant to awaken. He attempted to keep a grasp on the possibility that Ashley's movement indicated she was struggling to awaken and was meant to. Maybe she was the last to be knocked out, Peter tried to reassure himself. But he couldn't hold onto too much optimism. He had been so sure Jay would be the one to make it out of this alive. If anyone had the survival instinct, it had to be someone like Jay.

He had seen the moment when Jay had smashed the monitor and camera in his own holding cell, the door to the outside hall wide open. Peter was sure that Jay had lost it by that point, having to unintentionally kill two people. Maybe that was why he literally fell into Alex's trap. Peter had dug his fingernails deep into the palms of his hands as he had anxiously watched Alex. All she had to do was keep her head up above the water. "It's not that damn hard," he had shouted at the camera in desperation. Soon after that declaration, Alex had hit her head and he watched her body floated around the murky water. She had circled the pool drainage gate but never went down. She was now face down in the sludge. He recalled how he had been surprised when Alex's monitor had flashed on. That was his clue that several rooms hadn't been discovered yet. He waited in dread for one of the black monitors to flash on and the struggle would start again.

Peter didn't watch Emma's last moments. He had watched it out of the corner of his eye after Emma had given up her struggle and had caught a glimpse of Paige lying next to Emma's bizarre water chamber. He would glance over every so often but the stillness in that room became too much to bear. Every once in awhile he swore that he could see her breathe, but he was playing that same mind game when it came to Toby and Hazel.

He had long given up on Manny after Darcy met her fate. Manny had reached a new level of hysteria; he wasn't sure if she was intentionally slicing up her arms on the bladed arm trap or not. Even if he did get himself out of here, he wasn't sure he dared to go near Manny without that loaded gun. He was certain that she would pounce on the first living thing she saw with the intensity of a rabid animal. He wasn't sure what had happened to J.T. and Liberty after they had wandered into an adjoining room and was pretty sure that he didn't want to know.

Peter hoped that Sean and Ellie were still in the game, but it was looking grim. When he watched them on the screen now, he averted his gaze from the gruesome sight of Sean slouched in the corner, the blood pool growing. Peter knew that Sean was cradling his injured arm and he wouldn't be forced to deal with the shock of seeing Sean without his hand, but his imagination filled in the rest. He would occasionally see Ellie's hand or red hair pop up out of the pit but he refused to get excited by now. The last time she had tried to pull herself out, he could tell she was unbelievably weak. He wondered how long she would continue to fight.

His last hope had been Jimmy and Spinner, who seemed to be doing much less than the rest of them. At least it was buying them all time, although by this point it seemed like the longer they survived the closer they were to losing the game. When he saw Spinner hunch over in pain, he began to yell at the camera in his cell even though he knew it was the type of camera that couldn't pick up audio. He stopped yelling and nearly threw up when he saw that Spinner's hands seemed to be stuck in a claw like pose. Was it the result of broken bones? There was no blood and he couldn't figure out why else Spin would have screamed like that and why he was so shocky now. Peter still refused to admit to himself that his heart had pounded with anticipation when it seemed like Spin was going to cut into Jimmy. He knew it was the only way they had a shot, what else could he feel?

Why wouldn't any of them notice him? He began to wonder if he was even on their monitors. Funny how he could get attention before with the things he taped, but once he was in front of the lens he was invisible. He was invisible behind the lens as well, to an extent. There was more power in the position behind the lens though. He was able to get to people, see what they couldn't, and then shove it in their faces and make them see what they really were and what it all was about. As long as there was a response to what he showed them on film, he was there. He wasn't in the picture, but he was in the critical position behind the camera. He made things happen.

His finger was on the trigger now. He hoped he could wait until the last moment before he had to make this happen. His lungs were heavy now though, his heart pounded so fast that he felt the pulse in his temples. He wasn't sure if his body would go out before his mind did. He felt himself slipping.

* * *

I'm sure you all know who's next. As long as something doesn't separate me from a computer, the final two chapters will be up and will conclude with the last on Halloween night. 


	14. The Heartbreaker

Warning: This chapter is one of the most graphic, in my opinion. But this and the one after are what I wrote first, so I suppose it's always going to shock me a little bit. Slight bloodiness involving Craig's stitches. But I have not intended to make you throw up. It's a bit gorey but also delirious. But I'm not on your end; I don't know what you'll think.

* * *

"Craig?" Ashley whispered. She was too scared to speak up. She felt like someone else was in the room with her. Or at least watching her and she knew it wasn't the camera. "Craig?" 

She turned over his body so she could see his face. This movement caused a ring of two keys to fall out of his pocket. Ashley grabbed and clutched them as she kneeled over at him, surveying his wounds. Her first instinct was to take his hand. The scalpel in his other hand indicated that he had indeed succeeded in cutting into himself. The stitches on his wrists broke her heart. Had he made a suicide attempt? Then she noticed the tape player. She hit the rewind button but stopped the tape before she heard it click, signaling it had finished. She caught the tail-end of Craig's message.

"Sometimes bloodletting is the only way to rid yourself of the poison that is seeping in. The key is hidden underneath your own flesh," the male voice said in a coarse tone that was barely above a whispered. She tugged at her own hair out of anguish and then slammed the tape player on the ground. It clicked off. She frantically felt her own pockets and pulled out an envelope. She tore into the paper and then placed the tape in the player.

"You are a heartbreaker. Let's make it literal," the voice stated. She noticed that his tone seemed slightly accusing.

"No…no," Ashley heard herself murmur and stopped the tape. Her mind was flashing images of open heart surgeries she had only seen at a glance as she surfed through television channels. She held her head and tried to block out the flashbacks of documentaries on ancient cultures that performed sacrifices on virgins, cutting into their chests and removing their beating hearts. She tasted vomit in her throat, spat on the floor, and stalked over to the door. Ashley heard something snap, but didn't care much about it. Locked. She tried the key and nearly stopped breathing as she found that it worked. The door was open now. She yanked at the device on her neck. Now she just had this to deal with. Her hands were shaking violently and she could barely put the key into the lock of the device around her neck.

"No. No," Ashley whispered as the first key, the one that wasn't used on the door, failed to work. "Not real," she muttered as she tried the other and found herself still wearing the strange steel collar device with the chain.

She clicked the player on again, taking baby steps back over to Craig's motionless body as she listened to the message.

"Time and time again you have run away from your problems. You shut down and that breeds a wasted life. You are too scared to embrace what you have. As for the broken boy before you, the key lies within him, embedded somewhere in his wounds. This time you are splitting open real wounds. Break open his wounds and you will be able to escape. Don't worry; he won't feel a thing with all the narcotics in his system. Please do not feel any twinges of sympathy though; no force was involved on my behalf. Amazing what he would put up his nose or into his arm.

You were not around to be his love drug, so he simply began to substitute. Don't be reminiscing and start crying. Go on and confront this. This is one situation you cannot escape from. You once said you would not sacrifice yourself simply out of sympathy because he is sick and weak. However, this is one last sacrifice you need to make. Will it be at his expense?"

Ashley shook Craig hard, "Wake up!" Her scream was cut off as she felt herself being jerked backwards, much like how an owner tries to control their frantic dog. She coughed and then dragged herself back over to him. The device was tighter now. She pleaded with him more as she delicately touched his wounds and began to undo the last of the gauze on his right wrist. Another yank. This time she looked up and realized that if she did not unlock the collar like device around her neck, she would be strung up from the ceiling. Her first instinct again was to grip the steel and try to yank it in all different directions. She began to hyperventilate as she scrambled over to Craig again. Ashley grabbed the scalpel out of his hand and held it over one of his stitched up wounds. She tried to tell herself that it was like ripping the seam of an article of clothing while another part of her was reminding her of how much she hurt him before and now she was going to do it again.

"Can't feel a thing," she muttered as she delicately split it open. Upon seeing the blood she screamed. She felt another yank on the chain. Ashley scrambled back over,pressed on Craig's open wound, and watched as more blood poured out. She couldn't feel the key. Was she supposed to actually dig inside the one she cared about? Another yank. This time she had to grab onto his ankle and use his body to crawl closer to him. She struggled to pull him closer to the device on the wall that held the chain, hoping that it would buy her more time. Then she noticed his shirt had risen. He had a horrible scar that ran lengthwise down his stomach. Three other patches of stitches were by the waistband of his jeans.

"No." It was a bizarre game of finding a needle in the haystack. Hide and seek. A scavenger hunt.

Ashley gasped as she was pulled back towards the wall. Easter eggs were in his wounds, she thought deliriously. She frantically scratched at a wound on his stomach now as the panic had fully set in. Her nails dug into him as she was jerked back. She managed to grab onto his wrist and gave a firm tug. His body slid slightly across the floor. She gave another yank and felt resistance. She saw the shackle on his ankle as she was yanked up to her knees. She reached out into the air in protest, in desperation.

"Why is this happening?" Ashley screamed and frantically attempted to rub his blood off of her hands. She was taking the role as Lady Macbeth. She was the one with blood on her hands and guilt eating at her heart. She had never meant to hurt him, then or now. She would look at his face and drift back to memories. At this point, the painful ones were easier to manage than the pleasant ones. For some reason, their involvement in grade nine tugged at her heart strings the most. How innocent they were. They never would have dreamed they'd end up in a situation like this. All they had to worry about was first dates and what clothes defined you. She was staring at his closed eyelids now, desperate to feel the gaze that would penetrate hers and nearly knock her over. Ashley wanted to dwell on his cheating, her yelling before she had ran away to London, or even how Craig hadn't had much of an innocent childhood and deserved more and she failed him by not trying hard enough. But somehow she kept sinking into the softness of the good times, which only reminded her that future ones – with anyone – where being cut short. In an effort to keep from traveling back in her mind to a memory of performing their adaptation of Taming of the Shrew, she began to run through Shakespeare titles in her mind. Hamlet; but the only thing she could see was Emma lying in her watery grave as still as Ophelia. How could this be happening?

She couldn't fight him anymore. Taming of the Shrew; the first face that came into focus was Craig's as he took his place on the stage for a Grade 9 drama exercise. He was so clear to her then. He knew who he was. Now she could see herself performing, attempting to find herself. She wasn't in her own body anymore. Her mind spit out among thoughts of her family and friends as she was yanked upwards again. At this moment she noticed a metal rod in the corner across from the door. She twisted her neck to see the gears that were being used to hoist her up. If she had only…

Now the tips of her toes touched the floor. Her eyes widened as she watched as Craig sat up.


	15. The New Apprentice

Happy Halloween everyone! Thanks to everyone who has left reviews. And if you read this later on, don't hesitate to leave a review. I'd like to hear what you think.

Warning: I like Crash and most people do not do this to their ships. Is that warning enough? Once again, stitches removal warning.

* * *

"Craig," Ashley managed to whisper. She saw him look over at her. Her eyes were watering, but through the blur she could see his facial expression as he looked over at her. He looked serene and the way his white skin was lit in the light she might have thought he seemed almost saintly. There was a glow about him. His presence filled the room. She gasped. One thing for sure was that he seemed content. She might have even detected a smile on his lips. She wasn't touching the floor now. His face began to morph a bit and she remembered all the times he smiled. Then she knew how she ended up here. 

"You," she choked out. Ashley remembered that smile Craig gave her on the street corner. The smile that lured her over to him. Prior to waking up in this situation, the last thing she remembered was him. Craig focused on her eyes. Her bulging blue eyes looked like the domes you shake and glitter falls onto an ice pond. She was still now. He would be the last thing she saw.

Craig began to gently stroke his wounds, studying the difference in shape and texture of his skin and what lies beneath it. He began to pick at the stitches on his left arm once he felt something distinctly not muscle. It was a bit of a struggle to loosen them, his fingers were too large. He grabbed the scalpel and used that to sever the stitching. The wound yawned open. He cringed as he massaged and probed his wound. He retrieved the key that was wrapped in plastic as calmly as he would remove a splinter. Then he unlocked himself, grabbed the key ring on the floor, and approached Ashley. He was tempted to take her down, knowing full well that wouldn't save her now. He just wanted to hold her again. He tenderly touched her hair.

"I gave you a choice. You saved me. But what you didn't know is that I've already been saved. I've been here before and I learned how to survive. A few months ago, I was a mess. Then John came into my life and taught me about survival. I faced my own test," Craig explained to the girl gently swaying in midair. He lifted his shirt and pointed to a long scar just above his navel. He was sure that his eyes were as wide as Ashley's. He was surging with energy. He had spent so long facedown on the floor, focusing on keeping his heart rate and breathing slow so he could remain in a sluggish state. He was slowly coming out of the morphine haze by the time Ashley had woken up and had to rely mostly on a meditative state to keep from cringing as she had opened his wounds.

"My test. It made me stop running, Ashley you have no idea how long I've been running. Now I'm just living. There's no more waiting. All of this, it was a chance for you all to exorcise your demons. And it's also a way to learn that you can't do everything on your own. In a lot of the other rooms, their survival was dependent on working with another person. Anyway, I ran into John again by chance and he has made me into his new apprentice because we have much much more work to do. I was able to start over again," Craig said as he lifted his wrist and gestured to the stitched wounds on his wrist that were a result of the act that would allow him to be reborn.

"I was originally supposed to play along side the rest of my schoolmates, though as more of an observer and not a pawn. I could tell you what's in those other rooms, I helped plan it. I could give you a good idea of who's going to rot down here because they didn't play the game," Craig paused and glanced over at the TV. "I'm guessing that J.T. and Liberty aren't going to make it out of that room. I bet that sack sped things up a bit. I can just imagine what they thought it was. But it wasn't what it seemed."

Craig was silent for a moment as he studied the battlefield. Some of them angered him; why didn't they simply do what was asked of them? Others brought on a small wave of sadness; he had a soft spot for some of them and their symbolic traps. He had never allowed himself to make it too easy but had silently been rooting some of them on. "Oh ew," Craig said as Peter flashed on the screen. "I didn't know that was going to make _that_ big of a mess."

"What was I saying? Oh yes. I wanted to watch it all play out like Amanda got to do with Detective Matthews. However, John thought it best that I learn one final thing. I could not trust my new father or his apprentice Amanda. I think I kept thinking that they'd leave me or something. That sounds appropriate doesn't it? Poster child for abandonment issues, huh?" Craig said and smiled shyly at Ashley.

"So I was offered a syringe to inject myself with and be unaware throughout the whole game, including my final part in it. My final lesson was trust and patience. And shit, I almost lost it at first, even though I've been preparing myself for this. I thought for sure it was happening again. Everything seemed like it was happening again. I've had a few paranoid moments and bad trips but I think that one wins hands down. But you know what? Here I am. I'm alive."

Craig stared at the girl dangling from the ceiling. He felt sad as he looked deep into her eyes. He used to be drawn to her eyes and never wanted to let go of her gaze. Whatever was once there wasn't anymore. He could almost imagine her slowly drifting out of herself. He had to try to take in as much of her as he could. Her clothes would flutter a bit as she swayed from side to side. He wasn't sure if she was an angel or a ghost. Sometimes he found himself believing in ghosts and he hoped that she would continue to haunt him.

"And you could have lived. You had a choice. You were my first test subject. You were the queen of hearts; the grand prize worth cashing in on. Love is war and the rest were mere casualties."


End file.
